R-E-S-P-E-C-T Not Just a 60's Song

" I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being."

Jackie Robinson

Since I love the earth, and want to respect to all peoples, and growing things and creatures....

                     .......and especially since I interact with dogs daily, I'd like to change that quote to 'respect me as a living being.'  Isn't respect a lovely emotion? Not overly dramatic. Not stagnant and stoic......

                                            ....RESPECT is simple.   
                                                            And powerful. 


Life constantly flows with opportunities to show and offer respect:  for our precious land, the good earth that nurtures us, for our friends and loved ones, even to those who are odd, different, or to whom we dislike. It's hard to know how to respect those who are violent, harder still to imagine our fury at them comes, in part, from our refusal to acknowledge our own potential for violence.  

It takes courage, maturity and self-compassion to be aware of all parts of ourselves, to exist in the tension of hurt and pain in ourselves and others, while choosing to live out love and respect.  

I tell stories about my life. And, right now, my grandson and his relationship with our dog, Turnip, are major characters in my life.  Jude and Turnip play together, bop each other, steal toys, share food and want the same space on the sofa. However, this is not a story about Turnip and Jude.  This is a story about respect.

Burren, our other dog, is more aloof and prefers watching more than demanding. She is a dog of integrity, but she is still a dog. Even kind dogs will put teeth into their 'no' if they have no other choice. Burren has her own relationship with Jude, less flashy but just as real. While Jude and Turnip go on adventures and get in trouble together, Burren's interactions are more mothering.  I shared a photo of Burren obliging Jude's pleas to swing with him, or "fwing"' as he says, but the following story has no photographs.

I captured this with the lens of my heart:  

Jude is playing in our sandbox. The sand is so wet he can't get his scraper truck to make roads, or his molds to release their shapes. Frustrated, he stands and shakes his hands, but wet clumps cling to his fingers. He holds his hands up, fingers splayed, looking around for a solution. He spies Burren sleeping in the dog-shaped ditch she dug near the sand box.

The little boy goes over and sits on the edge of her ditch, hands still up. Dog acknowledges his presence by wagging the very tip of her tail. She shifts her body over slightly. He sinks down into her ditch, knees drawn to chest,  hands held in front. Boy and dog gaze at each other. Then Jude gently puts his splayed fingers onto Burren's back. She leans into his touch. He begins petting, threading his fingers through her coat.  Then, lifting his hands to his face to peer at his fingers, he smiles and repeats the threading and petting.

Jude's fingers move up Burren's neck. A strong pat on the head showers sand in her face. I move, ready to intervene, stopping when Burren stands up and moves away. Jude follows the dog. Curling her body around his waist, Burren once again allows him to pet her back and wipe more sand into her coat. Whenever his hands move toward her face, she takes two steps forward.

For the next few minutes, dog and boy move in a sandy dance, Burren gently teaches the little one how to be polite about wiping his hands on her. Hands clean enough, Jude moves away. She shakes violently; boy turns away, squinting against flying sand. Burren goes back to her ditch and Jude runs off to play on the toddler slide.

Somehow witnessing this exchange gave my heart hope. Seeing respect offered between different species and watching it play out right in front of me, in the midst of all the heart breaking and violent news of today, helps me not give up, helps me want to continue being a loving, respectful presence in the world. 

Perhaps Jude is onto something:  approach gently, wait for an invitation before striding confidently into the other's space, and back off when there is a hint of 'no.'  Perhaps Burren is onto something:  Watch, wait, accept another's presence, decide whether it's best to speak up or move away, be ready to model what you want the other to be or do. 

Perhaps we can all learn from the actions of small boy and a dog. 

Gentle, Gentle, Only Coaxing, no Forcing

While sitting on my meditation bench, under the pine tree in the early morning..... 

                    .......I notice the Mandevilla's 

single trio of buds is pinking up, but still tightly closed. Though July is humid and hot, almost tropical, the Mandevilla

is reluctant to respond to the lush juices cursing through its veins.

On the opposite side of our patio garden is an amaryllis, gorgeous and brazen, shouting scarlet in four directions, dripping sexy pollen down swollen petals.  

In seven months, this is the fourth time of wanton blooming for this fecund bulb.

My soul senses wisdom hidden in the contrast of reluctance and wild abandon. Is there a reason why I've deeply noticed these plants?  Sleepy insight curls in my depths, as the ash from fires of early morning farm refuse burning whorls and rides air currents above me before falling gently to the ground like summer snow on green grass.  Interior movements rise and fall in my depths, as wisdom smudges the edges between wakeful routine of day, and reluctance to leave the soft cocoon of dawn. 

While I fertilize the Mandevilla, coax it to do what surely comes naturally, photograph the budding process, and wait in eager anticipation, I never touch the swelling buds. Gentle, gentle, only coaxing, no forcing.  Likewise, I've learned not to pick at the buds of insight. In due time, if ever, I will know what I am to know.  

find the buds! 

I am not irritated at the Mandevilla while adoring the Amaryllis. I water both, feed both, and talk to both.  I see myself in them as I know reluctance and wild abandon.  Well maybe a tad more reluctance.  Ah yes, there’s that niggling insight again…..

Short Takes: Turnip Head and DouggaDouggas

Two hazards on the dog walk this morning: baby chipmunks and poison ivy.  Turnip walked the whole path in creepy crawly stalk mode, his focus intent enough to ignore the long stem of grass cradled between his eyes in the deep furrow of his forehead.  Hilarious, a low slung hound dog creep walking with a grass seed-head dangling above his eyes, prickling his lashes!  I don’t think he even blinked. Eyes on the prize every moment - a good way to live.    

I often dream of unclipping and unleashing, letting the dogs be dogs. Reality trumps dreaming though. Only in my dreams are my dogs voice controlled and road smart. 

                                                       

Enjoying a raw bean. Burren is waiting for a handout 

The small boy came home yesterday after spending some time with his other grandparents and their farm. He has a tan and an increased vocabulary. He shocked me by pronouncing Turnip’s name almost perfectly!  I'll miss the Turdyip and Terp stage. How does a kid change so much in 10 days? Another reminder to notice, even savor, what is happening right now; blink and it will change. 

Jude and Turnip went with me to pick “back roozbeeries.”  Interesting combination of blueberry and raspberry!  He proudly held the berry box in one hand and with the other carefully pulled a black raspberry off the prickly stems. “Be careful Ternip, day will pick at you,” he cautioned his sidekick. Then he decided to hold the box with two hands and let me pick. As I placed each berry in the box, he picked it out and either ate it or fed it to Turnip. After I finished picking he held up his empty box. “Me em Ternip ate dem all!”  With such a jubilant face how could I scold?  Earlier, he shared raw sugar peas with Turnip. The dog is so glad to have his boy, his human Pez dispenser, back home.   

This morning, Jude watched the men bale straw, and unload the wagons. He rode in one empty wagon with Daddy as Papaw drove the tractor. He kept yelling, “Hey, Papaw, hey.”  Or maybe he meant “Hay, Papaw, hay!”  Just when he learns to associate real hay bales with drawings of hay in his farm picture books, we bale straw. That’s okay, most illustrator’s get them mixed up too.

While Jude was away, we folded up his Pack and Play bed and put a Cars themed toddler bed in its place. We changed his whole room around, added other furniture too. I was curious how he'd respond. First time in the new room, he did not squeal in delight or jump on the bed. He just stood in the middle of the room, scanned everything, then turned to me with eyes round and sad, “Where did my douggadouggas go?” His pacifiers were always tucked in the net bag hanging on the Pack and Play. Only after I showed him the little basket on the bed holding his treasures did he even notice the bed. He promptly took one dougga out, popped it in his mouth, and curled up on the bed. I had to promise he could nap here after lunch to convince him to leave the bed.   

This small boy can adjust to berries of blue, red or black, to bales of hay or straw, to staying with grandparents on either farm, to various beds, but he is not yet ready to face life without his precious dougga!  

No worries, at least not with this Nana. Few kids enter kindergarten with a dougga! For all those adults who judge a small boy too harshly, I say give up your morning coffee, or one of your other comforting addictions and then we'll talk. :) 

When Jude comes of age, Turnip will help him throw away his douggadouggas. Turnip will have had lots of practice by then, as daily he has to throw away rabbits and chipmunks.  

Enjoy the following sweet, compassionate photo story: 

I was photographing the buds on my fushia and heard Jude talking; I kept clicking. Notice the ice pop in left hand.Notice the angel figurine in the background. 

He's talking to the angel, patting her. 

He walks away, then turns back and....

...offers her a lick of his ice pop!  (too bad the fushia is in the way!!)

LESSONS FROM THE LITTLES

Lately, I’ve been wondering why I love children so much. Is it their innocence, their pure wisdom, their spontaneity, their ability to experience something over and over again like it was the very first time?

That last one might be the cincher. (I looked up the word cincher, just to make sure it is indeed a word. It isn’t. Unless you are talking about women’s girdles and waist nippers. That might be another reason why I like children - no need to know about such icky stuff!)  Let me restate….children’s ability to experience familiar things new each day might be a top reason for my fascination with them. Maybe why I like dogs so much too- pull out the same old leash and they think they’re going to Australia!

Our grandson Jude, comes out to the empty pasture with us when we take the dogs out for exercise. He has a plastic bat and ball there. The bat was broken ages ago from a zealous game with Pap and Uncle J. We don’t replace the bat because we get such a kick out of watching Jude pick up the bat, focus intently on the busted part and exclaim, “Oh no!”  His expression is always surprised and genuinely distressed. And then he reassures himself with the pronouncement “Pap did it!”  A pause to honor both broken bat and Pap, he then either drops the bat or plays with it as is. Like all mishaps are survivable if a loved one is remembered.  Wow, that could be a spiritual practice.

Wouldn’t it be lovely though, waking up every morning actually feeling like it’s a brand new miracle, this reuniting with Mommy and Daddy and Life, (and leash if you’re a dog). Waking up to genuine freshness and not just the ingrained, knowledge and positive coaching tip ‘this is the first day of the rest of your life.”  To eat a pancake for breakfast. And. Marvel. With. Every. Single. Bite.  Some seasons this does become an intentional spiritual practice for me- stop and literally smell the pancakes rather than wolf them down so I can eat my fair share or move on to more important events.

My favorite show as a youngster was Art Linkletter’s “Kids Say the Darndest Things.”  In the same spirit, I give you some funny stories from my own grandkids.

GIANTS and TIGERS and DRAGONS, oh my!  

Jude, Papaw, Nana and the dogs were playing in the hay pasture. Burren and Turnip were not playing, they work hard hunting mice and rabbits in the tall grasses. Papaw mowed paths in the tall grass for Jude to run and so we could occasionally see the dogs when they come out of the grass. So, the pasture is a 3-fold arrangement: We can grow hay, the grandkid can play and the dogs can hunt.

Jude's favorite pasture game is hiding in the grass while a giant, a tiger, a dinosaur and a dragon stalk him. Nana plays the giant most often, creeping up on the giggling or screeching half-frightened boy, while chanting: 

"Feeeee Fiiiiii  Fooooo FUM, I smell the hair of a little boy chum!!"

Finding the boy involves exaggerated tickling or picking up the squirming body and slinging it around, depending on Nana energy levels.

Then it's Jude's turn. He is always a dragon or a dinosaur, the scariest monsters in his toddler repertoire. I overheard this as he stalked Papaw:

"FE FI FO FUM I  mell  the PAIR  of a  PawPaw  PUM!"

The phrase has become his go to words. If he doesn’t know what to say and when he forgets ‘ready-set-go’ he just says fe fi fo fum. I love this!  When life is difficult, when I’m at a loss for words, when I’m gearing up for something I could just chant: fe fi fo fum, lookout world, here I come.

                     

ADRENALINE RUSH

When Jude tires of monster hiding games, he calls the dogs. Their crashing out of the tall grass is as much an adrenaline rush as a monster finding him.

"TUR   ERRRRP!"  (Turnip)

"BURRRR DEN!"  (Burren)

Jude stands calling, fist clutching treats held high above his head. He waits, calls, whole body trembling in scary anticipation. Suddenly, Turnip explodes out of the grass, skids into a sit in front of Jude's tiny body. It's almost a strike, Turnip is bowling ball to Jude’s pin-anticipating-knockdown. The treat is given amid squeals and laughter. Then Burren's head is seen above the grasses as she hops her way toward Jude for more squealing and treat giving.

                                                                   

LAUGHING COWS

All my grandchildren ask for laughing cheese. They eat plain, unsweetened, crunchy sour dough rye crackers with Laughing Cow cheese spread. They always see the tiny picture of the laughing cow and allow themselves to be delighted! They eat my rye crackers like some people eat potato chips, just because long ago I said they wouldn’t like them. Often when they are cranky, they ask for laughing cheese. My spiritual director once told me life always offers something to help us get through the difficulties. Thank God for laughing cows.

                                                                               

GROSS

During sleepovers, Ave and Rae always beg to watch me use my water pik. I am shy with my oral hygiene, so I try to weasel out of doing it in front of them. Once, overly tired, I made up some lame excuse, “I don’t have to do this every night.” (Apparently, Nana’s not above fibbing). That particular night, Avery had been grossed out by Railynn’s brushing and spitting out bits of rye cracker – can’t imagine how she’d handle watching pieces of a steak dinner swirl down the drain. But, the begging and pestering drowned my better judgment and I water picked my teeth for them. Avery’s little face wrinkled with horrified fascination. Then, with utmost care and concern she leaned in to whisper.

“Oh Nana, I really think you should do this more often.”

                                               

BEAT BOREDOM

Jude entertains himself (and us!) by singing in the car:

Trickel Trickel liddle dar,

How I whender wat you are.

Up above the Di Mond in da Guy,

Trickel Trickel liddle dar

How I whender wat you are.

                                                                                               

SOFT AS ANGELS

Avery steps in my shoes with her bare feet.

“Ahhh. Nana, you’re shoes are soft as angel clouds.” Then stepping out, my cushioned insert sticks to her foot. “What the heck is this?” A quick survey of my closet shows inserts in every shoe and slipper. I explain my sore feet.

“I wish I had incushions in all my shoes!”

She expressed the same amazed delight and desire upon spying the bath brush for my back hanging from the shower head. Buying birthday gifts for her this year might be easy and cheap. J   

                            

NOT MOVING

The girls are using wagons and strollers and arms full to cart all the doll stuff into our front room.

“What are you doing? Moving?” 

“No Nana,” says the 4yr old. “We’re going on a kay shun.”

“A kay shun?”

“Yes, a kay shun, where we go every year in the summer.”     

NAKED CHAIR

I made the mistake of changing the 6yr old into her bathing suit outside. I told her it was okay to change behind the privacy screen I made out of two deck chairs. Later, I caught the 4 yr old stripped naked on the deck. She saw my expression.

“It’s okay, Nana. I’m behind the naked chair.”

She was not behind the privacy screen chairs. She stood beside one of the deck chairs facing the busy road in full view of everyone driving by.                                                  

WORKING FRUSTRATION

We are all standing by the pasture watching Papaw bale hay. It’s is fascinating for the grandchildren. They love everything about Papaw- the way he disappears after meals, the big machines he keeps for toys, and now, the bales popping out from behind some noisy contraption. They wave and holler, dance and jiggle with excitement. When it’s over, Papaw jumps off the tractor, rushes to say hello to the kids, then hurries off to the next job. Avery comes to me, face dejected and shoulders slumped.

“Papaw works and works all day, then comes in a short time and goes out again to work all the time! I HATE it!”

Precisely expressed, dear one. Precisely expressed.

                                      

IMPRESSIVE INVENTION

The grandchildren watch as I unlock the play yard fence gate from the opposite side. I put my hand through the hole in the green rubber coated wire/split rail fence that Papaw cut for me. Sticking my hand through the hole, hooking my fingers through the metal loop I open the spring loaded latch. For some reason this concept fascinates the kids. Avery wonders why there is a lock only on one side of the fence, who cut out the hole and why the latch is so heavy. Later, as Jude and Railynn played in the fenced yard while eating watermelon and Avery ate with the adults on the patio, there were many requests to open the gate so the younger two could hand us their melon rinds.

“Look, kids, this is a hand-door,” an exasperated Avery exclaimed, pointing to the hole in the wire. “Use the hand door!!” From then on, rinds, napkins and toys that fit were handed between deck and play yard through the hand door. What fun!

I’m going to enjoy this stage immensely, the stage in which “nana and papaw are geniuses.”  All too soon the grandchildren will be rolling their eyes while teaching us how to use some newfangled smart technology or correct our dumb mistakes.

And, when they leave, instead of being exasperated with myself, I hope to just chant with a squeal and a laugh:  Fe Fi Fo Fum, all mishaps are survivable if a loved one is remembered!

Joyfully,

Sharon 

The Stirring is Enough

It’s one of those achingly beautiful days. 

I can’t settle to work indoors, though the house could use some attention. I can’t keep weeding the garden either; my back and turning pink skin need a break. I’d lie on a blanket outside and stare at the clouds but if I lay in the dog yard, the dogs will jump on me and if I lay outside the yard they’ll yip to join me. I’d rather not interrupt their quiet as they are gloriously stretched out in the yard soaking up the rays.

So here I sit, laptop open, taking my break, pondering thoughts the movie from last night opened in me. I went to see The Fault in Our Stars with my daughters. In my youth, I've asked pointless questions such as what is the reason for it all, what is the grand scheme of everything in life, why the heck am I here? Occasionally my mind still churns with those unanswerables, or circles around other ones, like why did I survive cancer when others did not?

Since gaining some age and perspective, I’m better at letting go of the questions and just experiencing ‘the feels’ as John Green, author of the book Fault in Our Stars, likes to say. Sometimes, I am stirred in my depths, by stories, by life happenings and will never understand what has been rearranged, healed, or remembered. That's okay, the stirring is enough.

Back to the movie....I smiled when Augustus mentioned wanting to make a difference in the world. I have felt that too. I cried when Hazel, his girlfriend, expressed sorrow that he didn't see his love for her as making a difference and that changing her life wasn't heroic enough. I cried because I've felt pressure to make a difference too.

The concept of being or doing enough is difficult for most of us. For instance I can easily fall into a restless longing to see more ….and what I long for always seems over THERE somewhere ….in the Grand Canyon, or the Alps, or a new garden or walking path. Yet, my own garden constantly throws surprises and gorgeous color my way.  

This morning I waited impatiently when stopped at a traffic light, staring at my fingers drumming on the steering wheel and feeling ridiculously irritated at all the cars on the road. Then I glanced out the window and saw vibrant pink petunias rising from the cracks in the sidewalk in front of an old stone restaurant. My eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. I knew those triumphant blooms were going to be weeded or sprayed with herbicide. I knew their efforts would be short lived, since they were growing wild below newly planted container gardens.

My tears were not in condemnation of container gardens or weeding.....

....the tears were my soul’s acknowledgement that yes, the story of Hazel and Augustus touched me. Life is so often cut short by uncontrollable happenings, predators, illness, violence, accidents. Yet, petunias will always grow toward the sun, unconcerned about struggle or the length of their lives; they simply do what is theirs to do: bloom a lot or a little, quietly or brilliantly. And that is enough.

Life is short. Love wins. No matter how long we live or love, no matter what we do or accomplish, know or don't know, we are always enough. 

Joyfully,

Sharon

When You Can Endure the Dark

WHEN YOU CAN ENDURE

When the words stop

And you can endure the silence

That reveals your heart's pain

Of emptiness or that great wrenching-sweet longing,

That is the time to try and listen to what the Beloved's eyes

Most want to say.

We have not come here to take prisoners, 

But to surrender ever more deeply 

To freedom and love.

~ Hafiz

Beautiful image taken from Dr David G Benner's FB page

“I can’t even see my hands in front of my face!” My younger sister exclaimed as we lay side by side on a dusty old mattress. I reached over in the pitch blackness, found her shoulder with my fingers and followed her arm up to touch her hands wiggling in the air. 

“I can’t see them either.”  I replied nervously, the darkness set off tiny acrobats in my stomach. We listened to our staccato breathing, throwing our hands out and drawing them close to our faces stopping only when our skin sensed their nearness. Then we took turns feeling each other’s hands to discover how close we got to our face. Giggles escaped into the blackness. Then outright laughter; hilarity is easier on the psyche than fear. We huddled close and repeated our dare to spend a whole night in the dark attic without a light.

If I was around ten, that night, my sister would have been eight. I don’t remember if we spent the whole night in the dark, if we slept at all, but I’m pretty sure her eight was braver than my ten. 

Kids are often afraid of the dark. Even as adults, most of us depend heavily on our sense of sight. Unless we are blind or become blind and get used to permanent dark, we feel safer with enough light to see. This blog post is different that what I usually write. My soul has been experiencing a season of darkness, obscurity, unseeing, some sadness that usually doesn't exist in the spring. More typical for the season of autumn and preparing for winter, feeling this way when the rest of the country is growing and blooming and sunny, has me pondering what such darkness is about.  

Yesterday, my grandson, Jude, lay quietly on the floor while I changed his diaper.  I hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights; suddenly he proclaimed, “Dere’s a dragon in here!”  

Was he afraid of the dark or was his imagination coming into play?  I calmly asked him to tell me the dragon’s color. Not knowing his color names or not getting the reaction he wanted, he pulled his arms in tight around his torso and whispered, “I’m scared.”  

Stephanie Landis photography

“Well, we better get out of here then!” I whispered back, tickled him while pulling him to a stand then grabbed his hand. He repeated, bedder get out of here, and joyfully shrieked as we ran away from the dragon. I’m sure his sacredness was part game, yet I do notice how we don’t give kids much chance to develop their courage in darkness. Lights are just too accessible.  

Perhaps this is symbolic of our spiritual development too. We often don't take the time to practice being awake in the dark. How well do we handle not seeing, not being in control, not knowing the future, not being able to see or sense God, not seeing our interior growth or developing insight until the ‘aha moment’ is ready to be revealed?  Are we stuck in black and white answers to the questions: what is light and what is dark?  Is dark evil, is light good? How do we develop our spiritual muscles of handling despair, sadness, depression, loss of the sense of God’s presence, desolation when culture norms are all about happiness, positivism, control, God is Light and sunshine, buck up be courageous, don’t air your dirty laundry and
 keep your act together?

shutterstock.com  -full moon moving across night sky

As a child, I was very aware of my bent towards melancholy. And how little such a personality is tolerated or encouraged. I grew up believing my empathy and sadness was wrong, dark, maybe even letting the devil get a foothold in me.  Religious language was strong on assigning good and bad to light and dark. Even today, spiritual leaders spin their whole approach to life and faith on the axis of feel good positive thinking and sunshiny beliefs.  I’ve struggled at times to understand my ability to hold darkness, sadness, and the waxing and waning of both joy and sorrow.  Is my capacity to hold sadness for myself and others a gift or a lack of faith? I’m leaning towards seeing it as a gift.  

under our pine tree

Even in this strange season for me, opposite of spring energy, I'm learning to trust obscurity, and the dark. I'm sure I'd still fear being in pitch blackness, or deep physiological-psychological depression, or hiding in a dark storm cellar waiting for a tornado to pass, but I like ordinary dark. When my family can’t find me at night, they go outside and look for the moon; I’m usually found under a canopy of tree and night sky, gazing up...

The night feels refreshing, a break from the brightness of day. 

I’ve also come to trust the way the Spirit moves below our surface, the way the soul goes through darkness in preparation for shedding what is no longer necessary. In this odd season of my sadness in the midst of spring flowers, I recognize the end of a very busy winter of book writing, dachshund fostering, babysitting, birthdays and holidays, the need for rest and rejuvenation, the melancholy that always comes after I've given myself completely to a project and now it's completed - a natural rhythm for me. (my co-authored book, A Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening is coming out in September!) This season of completion and wondering what comes next, along with different times of sorrow or uncertainty and melancholy for other reasons has taught me to hold and respect what is happening in my soul as I wait for the next season, the next drawing of Spirit, the next direction.

my camera going all wonky- interesting result

While I have nothing against positive belief systems, my own spiritual gifts to not seem to include constant up-beatness, bright inner sunshine, bubbly joy and cosmic happiness. I’m not talking about pessimism or optimism.  I’m referring to our cultural repugnance for anyone telling raw, un-prettied up stories, having emotional displays that go on too long or are less than victorious, messy spirituality, messy living, or just not having it all together.  

 I’ve noticed that as my capacity for holding mystery, obscurity, sadness and sorrow expands, so does my willingness to celebrate and see life as good. No matter what is occurring, in my inner or outer landscape, I find safety and rest in the Beloved's gaze. I've noticed this expansion in others who are improving their walking in the dark. 

Pretending to not have dark times, painful times, inner or outer chaos damages our spirits. Keeping secrets kill our souls. I hope our culture is moving toward more safety in telling our pain, of sharing our messiness as we journey toward healing and greater loving. We all need to listen more, to encourage and hold each other in our unpolished life stories. And, we need to be gentle with our own becoming, so we can then extend gentleness to the process in others.

Macbeth Motifs by meganlui | Publish with Glogster! ww.glogster.com

When, I had cancer, I was often surprised by the battle and sunshine imagery sent to me in cards, emails, spoken advice: ‘you’re a trouper and you can fight this’ - God won’t give you more than you can handle - this is a test to see if you will stay positive and fight. Sometimes, I felt such talk eased their fears more than ministered to mine.  Who of us hasn’t uttered trite platitudes in the face of something uncontrollable?  While I was so grateful for everyone supporting me, and appreciated any comment given, I realized I mostly sensed God sitting there in the dark with me, feeling sad to over my loss of health, sharing my melancholy. 

I often wonder if it is ever okay in our culture to collapse in a heap and just be sad?  Is it ever okay to give up, or choose not to overcome?  Is our faith only good when we’re winning? What is winning, anyway?  Who is to say dying or giving up isn’t winning?  How do we know that sadness and lamenting doesn't increase our capacity to bear other’s pain or thrive even when life is not all sunshine? 

Barbara Brown Taylor gives me hope in her newest book Learning to Walk in the Dark:  She describes “solar spirituality” – bright and full of light and happy- in comparison to lunar spirituality of those who often find God in the darkness.  She writes, “My spiritual gifts do not seem to include the gift of solar spirituality. Instead, I have been given the gift of lunar spirituality, in which the divine light available to me waxes and wanes with the season.”

another crazy camera shot of the full moon

I love Taylor’s lunar metaphor. It helps me accept my own gifts.  Such gifts make it possible for me to sit with a friend, listening to her ragged, raw sobs over the loss of her son, and carry some of her despair. It definitely helped when I held another friend’s hand in the car after a fun evening of dining and laughter, listening to the story of abuse pouring out of her. I remember how dark it was in that corner of the restaurant parking lot, how safe the dark cocoon of the car felt, safe enough to spill secret horrors. I had no words, couldn't say one thing about God and light and a fighting spirit.  I could only hold her hand and dwell in the presence of God who sat in the darkness with us.

Even as I am aware of deep emotions, deep seasons in me, I've had a lifetime of compartmentalizing them since my stoic culture judged emotion and melancholy as untrustworthy and spiritual immaturity. So, life  presents continual challenges for me to be present to all my own emotions, moods, and seasons as I listen deeply to my own and others' life experiences, and not shelve or put anxiety,sorrow or sadness in a compartment over here or over there in a blind attempt to make life easier. I notice my gift of lunar spirituality, and I notice it's false twin: the sinking into a funk that is more about avoidance than wholeness. I must always find ways of expression and release or my body will express my emotions for me, sometimes to the point of illness. I'm grateful to Barbara Brown Taylor for saying so exquisitely what I have struggled to articulate.  For writing such an encouraging book, helping us all learn to walk in the dark, to share our secrets in safe places so we can stretch towards wholeness.  For showing all of us how to listen to what the Beloved's eyes most want to say.....

Joyfully, 

Sharon

"When I listen to college students talk about faith, beliefs are what interest them most: Do you believe in the virgin birth? Do you believe that Jesus died for your sins? Do you believe that only Christians go to heaven? No one asks, “On what is your heart set?” No one asks, “What powers do you most rely on? What is the hope that gives meaning to your life? Those are the questions of faith, not belief. The answers to them are not written down in any book, and they have a way of shifting in the dark. " 

~ Barbara Brown Taylor  Learning to Walk in the Dark